


Bas-Imekari

by osamakes (sinuous_curve)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Parent Iron Bull, Tal-Vashoth, everyone is tal-vashoth, this assumes bull has offspring within the qun
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-09-24
Packaged: 2018-04-22 22:16:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4852544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinuous_curve/pseuds/osamakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This makes three qunari in the Inquisition. Of course the Qun is getting nervous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

A steady stream of pilgrims and recruits arrive at Skyhold every hour of the day. 

Some have the ragged remnants of whatever life they left behind strapped to their backs, desperation clinging to them in their thin cheeks and hollow eyes. Others come in bands, weapons sharpened and easily at hand because they scent unforgiving blood and won't wait for a knife in the back. Fewer, far fewer, come in precious metals and thick furs and are slow to shake the expectation they will be bowed to. 

Threnn sorts them; wounded to the healers, hungry to the kitchens, soldiers to Cullen, nobles to Josephine, and anyone remaining the Chantry mother sits with until Threnn manages to sort them out. They turn no one away and if needs must, the Mother will tend to those for whom pilgrimage was the last line in their life's song. It's humans mostly, some elves, and here and there a surface dwarf that Harding almost always claims for the scouts. 

One of Threnn's lieutenants shakes her awake when the qunari arrives in the middle of a cold night. Thin snow drifts listlessly through the biting air and even with the moon high, Skyhold murmurs with the sounds of workmen repairing ceilings and tumbled down walls. The lieutenant has to whisper her report twice before Threnn understands it. A qunari has come. Not _the_ qunari, the mercenary, but another. 

She thinks of Qun assassins being scraped off the sides of Skyhold. "Go wake the Iron Bull," she orders. What she knows about qunari would fit in a thimble and the Inquisition already has nearly more war at hand then they can manage. 

Whoever he is, he came alone. _Or he wants us to think he did_ , Threnn tells herself as she crosses the courtyard. Her people stand in a loose half circle with the qunari in the middle. Half of them are soldiers only in name and by virtue of monthly coin for service, but still she sees hands on the hafts of their weapons. There are tales in the Inquisition of what the Iron Bull is capable of, and not all of them can be false. 

And yet. Threnn frowns, and looks at him. "What business do you have with the Inquisition, stranger?" 

He's not so big as the Iron Bull, but that means little enough when he's still a header taller than the closest man. He's not so broad, either, but she'd bet the heaviest war axe in Skyhold would trouble him no more than a dagger in the Cassandra's hand. He has got the same horns as the Iron Bull except the left one ends in a splintered stump six inches from his head. 

"I --" he says, then the life goes out of him like someone took a club to the back of his head and he drops hard. 

It's only as she's running toward him, yelling for help and a healer and for someone to fucking wake the Iron Bull, that she notices the dark splotches of fresh blood dotting the snow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And just because he wakes up, doesn't mean he has a lot to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seriously considered calling qunari kid 24601, if only to stop confusing myself with which character any given pronoun was referring to. I manfully resisted the urge and hopefully it's largely clear. 
> 
> Also, if curious, I'm on Tumblr as osamakes. *finger guns*

He struggles awake through a confused darkness, broken by the throb of many voices speaking at once.

_Too loud_ , he thinks and flinches, but no. He would flinch if his body was there to move. It isn't, and distantly he knows that isn't good. It worries him -- scares him, except fear is for lesser things, of course -- but only through the heavy scrim of darkness around him. The voices rise and fall. Arguing, most likely. About what?

_You, probably_ , the Teacher-voice in his head says calmly. _What else would the Inquisition argue about standing over you_?

The _Inquisition_. He remembers. 

And as though his mind had been waiting for him to stop listening for Qunlat, the voices slowly begin to resolve into Common. Different accents, but they're all southern and he doesn't know them well and as the darkness recedes, pain comes in its place. He's been trained to catalog the hurts, rank them, and carry on, but he tries and can't. 

"...consider him dangerous?" 

Meaning, at last. The voice is female, he thinks. Concerned, but steady. There's no panic he can sense. The the darkness becomes less and less true. He might move his hands, if he tried. 

"Depends on what you mean by dangerous." Lower voice, and the mildness doesn't fool him. The ease is familiar and rote and _false_ and familiarity floods the bitter taste of fear into his mouth. "Dangerous as in another assassin? No chance. The Qun isn't stupid enough to send someone so obvious if they really wanted to kill me. And it doesn't make sense, anyway."

"Why else would he be here?" Sharper voice, strangely lilted and deeply focused. It pings a well of deep caution in him. This one will see past you. 

"Don't know. It doesn't make sense." 

The chorus rises again and he loses the thread of so many barely familiar words colliding against each other. He tries to swallow and with some difficulty, manages it. His throat scrubs with painful, sticking dryness, but at least he knows his body is there somewhere beyond the fog and the pain. He's forgetting too much. That's dangerous. 

A hand lights softly on his shoulder and then, whispered in his ear, "I think you're awake, and I don't blame you for not wanting them to know. I'm going to put a bottle to your mouth and you're going to drink it and sleep, and they can ask their questions later." 

_That's not smart_ , teacher-voice says. 

Cold stone presses against his mouth. He doesn't care if it's smart, he drinks it down and has no time for thought before the darkness swells and swallows him again. 

#

He wakes the second time suddenly, with his breath coming hard and hands on both his shoulders. There's light, too; red-tinged from a fire and yellow from lamps, and he shies away from it despite that. The darkness clings to him like cobwebs and his thoughts refuse to order, but something is very wrong -- 

"Be easy," a voice says. Familiar? "Be easy. There's no need to fear. You're safe. Here, drink."

He tries to speak and manages only a guttural, cracked sound. The voice presses the spigot of waterskin to his mouth. It's cold enough to shock and he guzzles it like a greedy child after a hot afternoon in the sun. When the voice pulls it away he almost makes a noise of deep protest, but. His thoughts have begun grudgingly to reassemble and the light to ease so that he can see. 

_Assess_ , he thinks. _This is how you begin._

The room: stone walled and floored, with narrow windows paned in thick, uneven glass. Not meant for beauty, but practicality. The hearth is large and the fire is large, well tended, and there's more wood stacked beside. It's so cold in the south. 

And then a memory of dark night and snow and he's a fucking fool, for knowing and not understanding what they mean by southern winter and southern cold. It's warm, and _he's_ warm and he shudders anyway and is slow to stop himself. Never let them see your weakness; of all things he was told never to forget, that ruled all. 

"All right?" the voice asks. 

He, too damned late and what worth is training if it falls away, looks at her. Human, female dress, clean and practical robes with the sleeves rolled up, hands stained many mild colors, smells of plants. Fresh. He frowns; where does a southern castle in winter find fresh growing things? Her hand on his shoulder seems small, but only for her humanness. 

Be wary always, but exhaustion sits just beneath his awareness and his bones whisper that she can be trusted far enough to ease. 

She looks past him -- the other hand, of course, so stupid -- and nods once, curtly. The touch withdraws. A soldier in winter arms stands returns to a post three feet from his cot. _Guarded_ , he thinks. The teacher-voice in his head snorts and says nothing more. It would be more concerning if he was not guarded. Nothing they have heard suggestions the Inquisition is stupid. 

"Can you understand me?" the healer asks. He says nothing. Practical, yes. But Common is a tongue of theory and practice for him, not use, and he doesn't trust his battered faculties to cooperate. 

She smiles wryly. "I think you can, but even if you can't, there are worse things than a friendly voice, yeah? My name is Kivrin and I'm a healer here. Don't know how much you remember, but. This is Skyhold, seat of the Inquisition. You came stumbling up three days ago and have been sleeping since."

It is strange to listen to his bones rather than his mind, but. He lowers his chin in a bare nod. The healer -- Kivrin, a strange southern name -- holds his gaze for a considering moment, then continues as though nothing has changed. He appreciates it and is repulsed by the dangerous disobedience at the same time. 

"I can only guess what happened to you between where you were and here." Her brows narrow in concentration. "I don't imagine yon horn broke off easy and you've bruises and cuts enough for half a dozen beatings. A broken rib, that's why you're strapped around the middle." 

He glances down. She speaks true; there's a clean bandage wrapped tight around his chest. Then, he recognize the sharp stitch to his breath for what it is, and frowns. It's an inconvenient injury, should things conspire such that he must leave. His reasons for coming, so pressing at the time, have turned to slop and mud in the journey. 

But later, that. Later. 

"Still." Kivrin pats his shoulder gently. "If the Bull and the Inquisitor are anything to judge by, you qunari are a tough lot and I think you'll mend. I've a sleeping draught if you want it--" he shakes his head and she laughs gently. "I figured as much. If you change your mind, just make a bit of noise and I'll come." 

She stands and brushes off her robes. He sees the moment of considering hesitation on her face, then in a low murmur, "I must tell them up in the main hall you've woke and they'll want to speak to you. I wouldn't expect them to dally." 

That much he expected, and he nods. 

#

He is, stupidly, surprised that it is the tal-vashoth sent to speak with him. 

The tal-vashoth dismisses the bas guards with assurances -- joking? -- that if he can kill a dragon, he can handle anything this mystery qunari might try. And besides, Leliana got real personal checking for weapons. He does like a good fist fight. They must promise to take bets if one erupts. 

He understands the Common words, but can take little meaning, and true fear begins to prickle over his skin. It's heedless of training and of his will. It _is_. 

But then the bas are gone, and the Qun returns to the tal-vashoth.

He saw the tal-vashoth many times, from a distance. _With such pride_ , the teacher-voice chastises. Little has changed; the tal-vashoth has more scars, but he is no smaller and his odd, unwieldy horns still jut like weapons. His bones murmur _hissrad_ with the illogical, hateful reverence of a child. 

Blood flows only one way, and that is forward. To expect anything else is to expect rivers to reverse their way. His mouth is bitter from anger. Should the tal-vashoth not at least bear wounds from his betrayal? Is the traitor's burden so light?

The tal-vashoth holds his arms and looks down at him, unreadable. "They think you're a spy, but that's because they can't imagine what else you would be. They think they Qun sent you, because they can't imagine how else a qunari ends up alone, so far from home, and there's not so many born vashoth that the Inquisitor wouldn't have heard about it." 

He says nothing. If there is danger on all sides, say nothing until you have made your choice of course. Lest that choice be made for you. Children's lessons, in his tamassran's voice. 

(The sound of Qunlat makes something in him ache. He will not acknowledge that.) 

"They're good people, mostly. But what they understand about the Qun wouldn't fill a cup." The tal-vashoth smiles like a sharpened blade. "The Qun already sent assassins and if they decided to try again, they wouldn't have sent a child." 

"I am not a _child_ ," he spits, then burns with shame. Is fucking silence so difficult? 

The tal-vashoth laughs humorlessly. "Are you sure?"

Silence _burns_ , and beneath that the clawing knowledge of what a mistake he has made. 

"They wouldn't have sent you. People down here run screaming from us. It's not practical and they forget that I am not afraid of the same things they are. So, the Qun didn't send you. And you're not born vashoth." The tal-vashoth's mouth thins into a line. "That limits the possibilities, doesn't it?"

A moment, then, of possibility. He could fill the silence with an explanation. Go back to the moment when news came of a dreadnaught sunk and a hissrad's unthinkable betrayal. When the Inquisition changed from a force of order to keep the idiot bas from tearing themselves apart, to the seat of a traitor. 

He says nothing. 

The tal-vashoth unfolds his arms. "They call me the Iron Bull here. The Inquisitor is Adaar. You should think of a name for yourself, while they're still patient enough wait out your silence." 

And then he goes.


End file.
